


sweetworded

by fanyoursolarsystem



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: F/F, Female Aziraphale (Good Omens), Female Crowley (Good Omens), Femslash, Idiots in Love, Ineffable Wives, LGBTQ Character, Mutual Pining, Post-Almost Apocalypse (Good Omens), Post-Canon, Slow Burn, genderbent, idiots to lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-17
Updated: 2019-08-20
Packaged: 2020-09-06 04:55:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20285761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fanyoursolarsystem/pseuds/fanyoursolarsystem
Summary: It has been six thousand years in the making. Now that the apocalypse is no longer hanging over their heads, Crowley and Aziraphale are trying to settle into the idea that neither of them are being watched anymore. What do they do now that they have all the time in the world to explore the universe together? What does normal life even look like?





	1. we live… the opposite… darling

_we live… the opposite… darling_

Everyone was positive that Aziraphale was immortal. They have watched her tinker around her Archives for what felt like generations now.[1] She was there during the Stonewall Riots era, donating money to free people from jail in America. She was there, letting young kids in her shop who were frightened for their safety after coming out at home. She was there, arms and doors wide open, when same sex marriage became legal in Britain. It was often wondered if Soho was considered London's main LGBTQ scene because Aziraphale opened her archives during the 1800s, or did she choose the location because of the reputation? It was debatable, sure, but an interesting one. 

It was like an unspoken, open secret. Azirpahale once explained that her grandmother had started the collection with a smile, as if that would be the end of it. The people on the other side of the conversation stared at her in disbelief. The thought that a Victorian woman had the means to open her own shop was laughable. The thought of a Victorian woman hosting queer literature was scandalous. The train of thought that there were so many gay women in a single family, let alone generation after generation, seemed too coincidental. The rumor was practically set in stone after that. You would think an immortal would care more about keeping up appearances. 

All the same, there was something exhilarating about walking into the building to find a two story Archives filled to the absolute brim with books written by LGBTQ authors, of queer history, of the local community, that visitors might not learn about elsewhere. She was a refuge all the same-- kind, good, a safe place in the very sense of the word. She was well loved. Although, truth be told, also a little feared. The Edwardian necktie, light brown spencer jacket with the original white buttons, a sprig of violet tucked into her carefully styled hair, a cameo brooch fastened above her heart, and her long skirt stiff with too many petticoats seemed like an innocuous combination at first. Her visitors, however, quickly learned to never ask about purchasing something off a bookshelf. Despite this, one look inside made her visitors feel like they were stepping back in time. 

Her companion on the other hand had all the aura of being completely frightening. The beautiful, almost lanky figure magically appeared at the most random times. Her curly red hair frequently spotted on the second floor one was sure was unoccupied a moment before. Some swore that her eyes were like that of a snake, although she wore sunglasses too often for anyone to know for sure. She was seen frowning at the first edition of Jane Austen’s _Pride and Prejudice_ hidden behind glass on display. She was often seen flipping through the tattered copy of Sappho’s poems rumored to contain genuine undisclosed fragments right beside its closed glass display, trailing the words with her long coffin shaped fingernails. Crowley was more often than not found sleeping on one of the most comfortable couches in the archives, much to the displeasure of the more studious queer visitors. Her mouth open, her impossibly long legs hanging over the edge of the couch’s arms, her booted feet swaying softly. She practically took up the whole couch, although it wasn't like anyone particularly dared sitting next to her anyway. It was like Aziraphale never mentioned it.

Well. That wasn’t true, either. Crowley would show up at the most random times throughout the day, and then went missing for a good week or so. She would show up, midriff showing, a thin black O ring collar shinning in the light, her red hair curled, or braided, or slicked back in a half bun, leaning over Aziraphale’s shoulder, smirking at her until she noticed. The two of them were almost as much as a draw to the Archives as the collection itself. How could two people so different always seem to be in close proximity to one another?

“Oh for Heaven’s sake!” Azirphale dropped her book every single time. Crowley would scrunch up her nose, reveal her brilliant white sharp teeth, and _belly laugh_ for a solid minute every time. The visitors never quite knew whether the visitor was welcome or not. For all of Aziraphale’s tutting once she had gotten her wits about her, she let Crowley hover around her, talking away as if they had known each other for all eternity.

It is August, 2019-- One month after the world was supposed to end. And Aziraphale was singing again.

Aziraphale walked slowly around the perimeter of the Archives.The stiff petticoat under her long skirt is brushing up against the hardwood floors with a familiar calming air. Her singing has been described as angelic. It stops visitors in their tracks every time she begins. It’s easy to fall in love with her. It truly is. Visitors often watched as the intimidating figure woke up from a nap at the sound. It almost seemed too obvious to everyone around them. For all her sharp angles and off putting manners, she always seemed to soften when she saw Aziraphale. It was like they conversed in her dreams, Crowley waking up with a soft smile on her face before immediately turning towards the sound. It was like she hadn’t heard anyone sing so well in a very long time. Perhaps she hadn’t. 

It's because it’s true. The sound could wake Crowley out of a deep sleep. It made her feel like something exploding in her chest. She could feel the vibrations easily across town. It lulled her to sleep if Aziraphale randomly began singing during the middle of the night. It woke her up like a nightingale perched right out her window. Her heart fluttered. It was so beyond _fucking annoying_. She shouldn’t. She really shouldn’t. After all this time, she presses the longing into a small box in her chest. She turns and sees a girl sitting at one of the tables in the back of the archives with her cheek leaning up against the palm of her hand. Crowley recognized the look of longing on her face. She flushed. She sometimes wondered if others could see it on her face as well.

The archives are quiet this morning. The only visitor in the building was the girl sitting in the back table, her nose buried in the book containing Austen’s surviving (and, a few unreported) letters. Aziraphale quite liked her, actually. She had shown up nearly every morning this summer, with her wireless headphones and a shy smile. She had so many unasked questions on her face, but would only voice those concerning the location of another book. She would carry first edition copies with so much care that it made Aziraphale’s chest ache. Yes, she quite liked her indeed. 

The sun was well hidden by her curtains made of genuine antique lace. Her skirts brushed around the floor, well loved by countless feet of curious visitors. She was gently picking up copies of first editions left on various surfaces of her collection with her gloved hands. At least no one has dogeared a passage they particularly liked today. Yet. When she finished placing her items back in their proper place, she stopped to smile at one of Anne Lister’s genuine coded diary entry she refused to let go. She confidently made her way back to her desk to retrieve her mug, steam materializing out of thin air. It was easy to get lost in the piles and piles of books stacked on what felt like every surface. Her visitors would often tell her that the Archives were bigger than it appeared on the outside, looking at her with expecting eyes, waiting for her to get the reference, before Aziraphale would motion them inside with a smile. Was it a heavenly miracle, Crowley thought idly? She swung her long legs off the arm of the couch, sitting up to stretch her aching back. 

She didn’t mean to scare Aziraphale. She never did. You would think her boots on the hardwood floor would alert her.

“Oh, for Heaven’s sake!” Ok, maybe, sometimes, _possibly_, Crowley did mean to. Seeing Aziraphale momentarily frazzled made her laugh every time. Aziraphale huffed. “My dear, was that quite necessary?” 

Aziraphale attracted attention every time she called Crowley that. She could see the girl in the back eyes widen a little at the nickname. She tried not to think about it too hard most days, even though she allowed herself a little pleasure in the phrase. Crowley was so distracted by the bell ringing above the entrance that she nearly missed Aziraphale letting out a pathetic whine. Oh. Right. She had been walking around with a mug of hot cocoa. The contents of which were now splattered along the floor and the bottom shelf of the nearest bookcase. Forgetting herself, Aziraphale kneeled down into the spill, grabbing at her books, pulling them away from the misfire. Her face was crumbling.

“Oh, no,” she let out softly. She couldn’t take every copy into her arms, although she did try. A copy of Emily Dickinsons’ poems were already about to fall onto the floor. Crowley could see the aged edges darker than they normally were. Aziraphale loved that one. (_"There's a pair of us, don't tell! They'd banish us, you know"_ rang in her ears.) Crowley softened.

“You could magic it back to condition...” she mumbled, timid at the sight of the stained pages.

“I most certainly will not!” Aziraphale said, a little too loudly. Clutching the aged folio of Shakespeare’s _Hamlet_ in her manicured hands, she looked up at Crowley with frightened eyes. “Then I would always remember it was there!”

Shakespeare had personally given Crowley that copy in 1603. It was one of the printed first editions and he had placed it directly into her hands as a thank you. It was a cursed good thing to do. She reasoned with herself that performing as a woman was illegal during the time, thus making it illicit. The train of thought would dissolve at the horrifying realization that Crowley had been tempted into a good deed by an Angel. The memory of the bawdy sound of the audiences' cheers and adamant shushes during her scenes still warmed her insides, though. She could see the small print on one of the pages with Shakespeare’s handwritten notes. The stain had wet the page so badly that a corner was already melting away. 

Crowley gingerly took several of the copies out of the crumpled figure of her friend on the floor. She placed her hand softly on the crown of Aziraphale’s head, blushing. 

“I’ll mend them. My treat. Demon’s honour.”

Aziraphale’s face twisted in some way. Forgetting herself for a moment, she was ready to say something along the lines of “Demons do not have any honour; that is why they were _Demons_, Crowley,” but the protest died on her lips when she saw how carefully Crowley was now handling the folio. She watched with wide eyes as Crowley took care not to break the spine. Crowley flipped through it like she normally would, trying to find the “No!” line that always cracked her up for some reason. A memory resurfaced from the deep: Aziraphale’s too bright face beaming back at her from the crowd. She didn’t realize Aziraphale would be there. She wasn’t prepared for Aziraphale to be there. The look of Aziraphale’s smile made her pause before screeching out a wobbly “_No!_” during Act 3, Scene 3. The Queen herself made an exception to tradition and was tittering to the right of the stage.

“Oh, I-- thank you.” 

“Don’t mention it,” Crowley said, drying the pages as she turned the soft pages in her fingertips. She genuinely hoped Aziraphale would, truly, never mention it again, but she could feel the Angel’s eyes on her as she bent down to get the leaning stack of books. There really were a lot. How could the contents of one cup really cover all of these? Mary Shelly’s _Frankenstein_ got the worst of it, although Patricia Highsmith's _Strangers on a Train_ wasn't far behind. 

Crowley sat down on the couch, flipping through the pages gingerly to assess the damages. Some weren’t all the bad. Not really. An easy miracle in the grand scheme of things. It’s not like her boss was really paying attention to her now, as long as she didn’t make too big of a fuss on the good side of things. She felt the couch shift besides her. Aziraphale's skirt barely touched Crowley’s bare thigh. The cocoa easily evaporated off the pages by her ministrations. Easy. All done. Any curious eyes slid off of them, allowing them that moment. No one had to know but them.

Crowley placed the last of the previously ruined copies directly into Aziraphale’s hands, and made sure to look anywhere other than the angel. The girl behind them were lost again in the Emily Dickinson poems. There was a lesbian couple entering the shop for the first time, their eyes wide at the miracle of how large the collection was compared to how it appeared on the outside. There were a group of gaggling women tittering and quoting Virginia Woolf to the left of them. The young girl nervously hiding in the back corner had a brand new copy of Alison Bechdel's _Fun Home_ in her lap. Her eyes were wide, shining in some sort of budding understanding of herself. 

“Crowley…” Aziraphale started. She raised her soft, perfectly manicured fingers up towards Crowley’s face. Crowley eyed them suspiciously. 

“No, really, don’t--”

Her words got caught in her throat as Aziraphale took Crowley’s hand in hers. In one smooth movement, Aziraphale raised Crowley’s almost too thin fingers towards her lips, kissing the back of her hand like she had seen Aziraphale do years ago, to woo a lady-in-waiting for a Queen long past. Crowley could feel the heat rise to her cheeks. 

“Thank you, my dear” Aziraphale said, beaming at her. Warmth shone on her face for the good deed. It made Crowley's insides twist a little. How could she properly explain fixing the texts to her head office without making it sound like she did it out of longing? Out of desperation of not seeing an Angel cry? Aziraphale leaned forward so that her knee was now pressed against Crowley's thigh. Her face softened, and she looked like she was preparing herself to say something more when the door opened suddenly. The jarring bell above the entrance ruined the moment. They both jerked at the sound.

Aziraphale’s face crumbled without turning towards the door. “Oh, for Heaven’s sake, not again.” 

Aziraphale stalked over to the visitors. You would think the calm smile on her face would give the men pause. Crowley has heard Aziraphale complaining about these men's threats before, and although she didn’t preen on this point, she was a little proud of what was to come. Interestingly, those men would never be seen again.

\------------------------------

[1] Aziraphale hates, hates, hates the mere suggestion of selling any of her books. So why not make her collection an Archives where people can visit, and touch her collection, but leave everything behind? (Okay, quite honestly, the writer is living vicariously through Aziraphale and her collection. Aziraphale would want me to be honest.)


	2. i want to say something but shame prevents me

_ i want to say something but shame prevents me_

Sundays were a day of rest. Aziraphale held to this idea steadfastly. If God herself wanted to rest on the seventh day, then so can she. She snapped her fingers so that her antique lace curtains would fall, dimming the level of sunlight that could enter the building. Crowley is snoring peacefully to the right of her. She somehow managed to fall asleep with her glasses on. The black lenses shown a little in the falling sun.

Aziraphale liked how quiet Earth was at dusk. She could hear the small little noises that humans would make unawares. The small conversation over dinner, the clinking of dishes, the distant peals of laughter, the beeping of various appliances. It’s funny how the Earth prepares itself to go to sleep, preparing for the hustle of another Monday morning.

They had spent the whole day inside Aziraphale realizes with a start. Crowley always joked that she would come out of a “reading marathon” to find herself covered in dust one of these days. She always assumed it would take more time for that to happen, but she didn’t know for sure. Crowley would probably tease her about it for the rest of the century if she did somehow manage to find herself covered in a fine layer of dust.

The year is 2020, New Year’s Day— six months after the world was supposed to end. And Crowley was sleeping beside her like they had all the time in the world.

We probably do now, Aziraphale thought idly. She placed her silk bookmark at her stopping point before gingerly placing the first edition of the arm of the couch so she wouldn't wake Crowley. Crowley looked so tiny when she slept sometimes. She would often sleep with her legs over one of the arms of the couch, or over the top where her head hung down towards the floor when she was frustrated and bored. She was folded up tightly now, her back against the opposite arm of the couch, her socked toes tucked in neatly under Aziraphale’s thigh. Her face was comfortably leaning against the back cushion, her lips parted, her glasses partially eschewed. They have all the time in the world now, Aziraphale told herself again. With no interference from Heaven or Hell. From the angry Angels bothering her about why she didn’t accept her position in the Heaven army, from Demons who demanded new diabolical schemes, never leaving them be. She still caught herself in moments like this. They weren’t on anyone’s side but their own now but the line of thinking that Crowley is the sworn enemy still exists. The Earth seemed new, even though to all appearances nothing had changed. No one remembered her Archives burning down. No one remembered the M25 bursting into a wall of flame. It was all like a bad memory, or something out of a dream. 

Aziraphale turned, leaning her crossed arms against Crowley’s knees she had bent up against her chest. Her chest was rising with short breaths. Her fingers were fidgeting even in her sleep. For all the time that Aziraphale had seen Crowley fall asleep in her Archives, for all the times that she had curled up next to her on the same couch to reread one of her past lovers’ writings, she never really took the time to watch Crowley. She didn’t understand the draw of sleeping, not really. She had things to do-- things to read, to organize, preventing unwanted visitors, to add more antiques to her collections. The night was too quiet an opportunity to pass up. Crowley, on the other hand, had somehow managed to sleep for an entire century. Aziraphale still couldn’t really believe that. So much had happened when Crowley had woken up. Humans were really fascinating sometimes. Human life seemed to fly by so quickly. A century was a nap for Crowley. A century is more than a whole lifetime for a very lucky human. Why would Crowley want to miss that?

Crowley stirred in her sleep, letting her head raise up slightly at the weight of Aziraphale’s arms around the tops of her knees. Her cheek had molded to the creases of the back cushion and she yawns as her eyes adjust to the dim light. Aziraphale can see her sharp teeth glint a little in the candlelight.

“Finally decided to give up Jane for the night?” 

“I do not see why you never liked her. She was quite clever.”

“She was _sharp_. Always looked through you like she knew your deep secrets.”

“Intuitive,” Aziraphale raised one of her fingers, “Inquisitive.”

“Too intelligent for her own good,” Crowley replied with a smile. She admired that. “Wish she could have been born later, where she could have just fucked off and lived on her own writing for the rest of her life.”

“Moving to Bath really did not do her any favors.”

“The Ineffable Plan, right? They have to die in the end,” Crowley said, yawning again. She swiped at her mouth, smearing her burgundy lipstick against her cheek in the process. “Fragile mortal beings.”

They were quiet for a moment. Outside, life was starting to wind down. People were still excited from last night. So many cars were honking outside her doors and the city was starting to fill with the most heavenly smells of freshly prepared food. She should ask Crowley to take her to the new Sushi place downtown. Crowley always detested the smell of it but she knew Crowley would still take her there all the same.

After a long moment, Crowley met Aziraphale's face again. Aziraphale raised herself up a little bit to reach towards Crowley’s face. Even with the glasses on, she really was so expressive. Years of practice, maybe. She thought she hid herself so well sometimes. Aziraphale could still feel the ache radiating off Crowley when she had once told her that Crowley went too fast for her all those years ago. Maybe it was a blessing that Crowley had her glasses on at the time. She doubted she would ever forget the look in her eyes if they weren’t.

“You know… you really do not have to wear these when we are alone, my dear.” Aziraphale was careful not to snag any of Crowley's curly hair when she removed the dark sunglasses. Crowley’s thin pupils shone a little as they adjusted to the light. She scrunched up her nose, a little defensive, but stood her ground and didn't break eye contact. “I quite like your eyes. I wish you would bless me with them more often.”

Aziraphale could feel the nervousness coming off her in waves. Laughing suddenly, Crowley took her glasses out of Aziraphale’s hands. She made sure that their fingers didn’t touch.

“Yeah, yeah, alright.” Crowley shifted her legs until her socked feet touched the cold wooden floor. “Is this about that new place downtown? What is it called again?”

Oh. Aziraphale placed her hands neatly on her lap. If there was one thing she knew about the universe, it was that Crowley isn't afraid to tell her how she feels about her. 

_We can run away together! Alpha Centauri! Lots of planets up there. No one will even notice us!_

Even when Aziraphale was stubborn, even when she denied it-- Crowley never did. Six thousand years was a lot of time to know someone. The number of ways Crowley has saved her. The number of ways Crowley has found her. The weight of the chains during the Reign of Terror falling off her as if unlocking them was nothing. The touch of Crowley’s hands when she handed Aziraphale her bundle of books she saved from the bomb she redirected. When Crowley told her that she wanted to run away with her it had hit Aziraphale like a bomb. They always had a love for humanity. Their first time singing in small groups as they huddled around the fire for warmth. Wondering why nearly every one had to die while a crushed Crowley cried watching the world drown as Noah and his family floated away. They have seen humans at their best and at their worst. Their fondness for Humanity is what kept them drifting back together and at that moment Crowley was willing to throw that away. It wasn’t just humanity. It was her. Crowley would miss her, too.

Aziraphale wondered if there was more to it. Maybe she just wished there was, she wasn’t sure. She knew the moment she stood before Crowley in the bombed church. It stung. God herself would have wept. Ash was settling all around them, and Aziraphale panicked. What a thing to worry about at a time like that. It was silly. It was meaningless. And yet Crowley just handed her the book bundle like it was nothing. Telling her to shut it when a ‘thank you” reached her lips. Crowley had pushed her glasses up to cover her eyes and walked away without a word. 

Oh, Aziraphale remembers thinking. You’ve always been there. Haven’t you?

Revelations can hit you at the strangest times. All those times she felt love in the air she wondered if there had been a long standing misunderstanding. In that moment, she understood herself. She sent Crowley a jar of violet infused aloe to smooth her burned feet that same night. She has no idea if Crowley ever used it or not. A part of her desperately hopes Crowley did. If nothing else, she hoped Crowley wasn’t up to date on Victorian flower languages. Embarrassment abound. Crowley had to know by now. She had to.

It was an awfully human thing to do. As she watched Crowley circle the couch, listening places that they (well, she) could eat at that would be a thousand times better than _sushi_, Aziraphale, she felt her cheeks flush. She was an Angel; Of course she would love every living thing. Even Crowley. Especially Crowley. But watching her now, as Crowley was flapping her hand around dramatically to illustrate a point, Aziraphale knew, deep down, it wasn’t just that. It wasn’t just love born out of duty, from her innate purpose of creation. It was Crowley. It had always been Crowley.

Crowley was leaning over at the waist now, one hand on her thigh as the other was waving in front of Aziraphale’s face. “Fine, fine, you win. Sushi it is. Just stop giving me those sad eyes, alright? Let’s go.”

Maybe in a different universe. Maybe in a different time. Maybe if she had stayed the night after the church bombing. Maybe if she had accepted a ride from Crowley after giving her the Holy Water. Maybe if they had gone to _Alpha Centauri_ before what they thought was the end of the world as they knew it. Maybe if Crowley never fell. Who knew what God really had in plan anymore. They had the rest of time to be together now. No level of threat to be hypervigilant for. Just the two of them, the humans, and the stars.

Smoothing the wrinkles in her skirt, Aziraphale gracefully stood up from the too soft couch. “Gelato, too?”

Crowley gave a long, dramatic sigh. She took her there anyway.


	3. you burn me

_you burn me_

The Archives is closed today, although no one could particularly parse out why. Aziraphale hadn't unlock the doors, hadn’t lifted the antique lace curtains, hadn’t even taken her mail inside. Crowley was lying dramatically on the couch, already drunk, with a bottle of something (it didn’t particularly matter what) in her hand. She beams at Aziraphale as she walks back from the second floor. The night was hot but especially beautiful. Aziraphale had let her long curly hair down in celebration. Crowley’s sunglasses were tossed aside carelessly on a first edition of Virginia Woolf's _Orlando_ right next to the doorway. A nightingale was singing outside. The world is quiet here. 

The year is 2020— exactly one year after the world was supposed to end. And Aziraphale was carrying her special bottle of Vinum Violatum from Ancient Lesbos she had locked in her desk drawer.

“_Shit_,” Crowley said, practically jumping to her feet when she saw Aziraphale coming back with the bottle. Aziraphale held it in her hands, a little dusty, the cork a little withered, but in all it’s formal glory. It was cold to the touch, the wine inside a vibrant violet. “Is this—?

“Vintage. As vintage as one can get, I suppose. I have been saving it for a special occasion. I was not sure what the occasion would be, but knew we would have one nonetheless.”

Crowley reached for it, letting it sit in her hands. She could faintly hear Sappho’s voice singing in that garden, years and years ago. All those poems lost. She hated thinking about it. Why does fire follow her throughout history? Don’t think about. Not tonight. She popped the cork with a snap of her fingers before winking. “Been holdin’ out on me, eh?” 

To her credit, Aziraphale only looked slightly annoyed when Crowley took a swig directly from the bottle. “My dear, really? I do have glasses.”

Crowley took one out of the sparkling glasses out of Aziraphale's Aziraphale's hand. Crowley sat back with the bottle, relaxing on her favorite couch with her eyes closed. “Angel, I missed this.”

Aziraphale gave her glass a dubious look before taking a sip. Ah. The memories can sometimes flood right back to you with a single sensory experience. Sappho's strange Aeolic dialect. The graceful way she tucked her cheek against the wood of her lyre. Any bacteria or potential illness was rendered harmless by the belief that there wasn’t any danger in drinking nearly three thousand year old wine in the first place. Aziraphale sat down on the couch right next to Crowley. She had an idea to throw her head back just like Crowley had, but decided against it. Crowley, however, did not stop herself from turning and laying her long legs across Aziraphale’s lap. 

“My dear,” Aziraphale started slowly after a long moment of content silence. She shouldn’t have drunk her wine so quickly; Crowley was shining two wide smiles over at her. “May I ask— I must ask. About your friend?”

“_Friend?_” Crowley looked almost taken aback.

“Yes, indeed… your, ah, your old best acquaintance?” Crowley continued to stare at her with drawn eyebrows. “I called you, just as the world was starting to spiral down, remember? You told me you were meeting with a friend?”

Crowley leaned her head back in acknowledgment. “Ah. Right.”

“What happened to them?”

“Dumped holy water on one. Horrendous fate. Brutal. Sorta cruel, but I was going to be dead next so...” Her words trailed off slowly. A moment of realization. She threw her head back to laugh. “I wish I saw the look on Hastur's _face_ when you bathed in the Holy Water. Ha!”

“You… you dumped holy water on your best friend?”

It was still a strange phrase to say out loud. For all the years that they have been friends, even when Aziraphale had always denied it, Crowley never particularly mentioned another being. It made her sound horrendously jealous. Perhaps she was. For all the times Crowley had met with her for dinner, to save her, to look over the humans together, she didn’t realize there was another soul Crowley was closer to. Had she ever really asked Crowley about her life outside of their arrangement? It was a bit depressing to think about how they became closer during their Dowling period, nearly six thousand years after they had met on the Garden Wall. The fact that someone Crowley was so close to after all this time was destroyed with Holy Water made it all the worse.

Crowley straighted up at this, looking more coherent than she had been for the last four hours. She gave Aziraphale a curious look. “What?”

“Oh!” Aziraphale colored, quickly leaning over and placing her empty glass on the coffee table in front of her. Crowley quickly drew back her feet. “My apologies. This is a painful subject. Please forget I asked.”

Aziraphale got up from the couch and took a quick walk around the room to clear her head. She could hear _Cris Williamson_ crooning _"A little passage of time/ 'Til I hold you and you'll be mine" _somewhere within the city. Groups of people laughing passed by her windows, one lagging behind to try to peek inside. The people going about their daily life, not knowing everything was so close to changing last year. How little things had changed. She made her way around to her side of the couch again only to look up and see Crowley watching her unblinkingly. Her feet were placed firmly on the floor, her hands white from gripping the couch cushion too tightly. Aziraphale wasn’t sure if Crowley was going to bolt from the bad memory or out of anger because Aziraphale brought it up. Both options were equally terrifying in the moonlight. 

_ __ _

_ __ _

Aziraphale looked around nervously for a way out. “Anyway! I have another bottle from the-- what were they called? The Screaming Twenties? No— the— no--”

“Aziraphale.” Crowley’s voice was slow and steady. “I wasn’t talking about... I—”

“What?”

“What? No! No, listen, listen, listen, listen. I dissolved him in the Holy Water you gave me in ‘67.”

“Oh! You… were not planning on using it on yourself?”

_"What?"_

“What?”

“No? You idiot? Holy shit?” Crowley faltered at the ‘Holy,’ putting down the replenished wine bottle as softly as she could on the coffee table. It just rolled off anyway. “I told you it was for protection?”

“Then why did I find you in the bar? Crying about losing your best friend?”

It was a horrible memory. The smoke pouring out of the windows. Ancient pages staked on top of more modern works. Piles and piles of books and folios. All crammed together to form a working Archive with a dubious filing system that sometimes Aziraphale couldn’t even remember. The Archives were a perfect incubator for a fire hazard. The suited men had ominously warned Aziraphale of this multiple times. There was so many years of Crowley waltzing in, snapping her fingers to open and close the doors behind her when Aziraphale was being stubbornly refusing to open for any guests. She would collapse on the couch and groan, never thinking of the day when she wouldn’t be able to enter the Archives again. Always forgetting that other people worry about things ending.

Crowley could feel the same sense of horror creep up her spine. Crowley could always sense Aziraphale throughout history. She was light, a beacon that was easy to follow. Crowley could sense her on the other side of the world, singing a song from the angelic choir, blessing mortals with the sounds of Angels praising God on Earth. It was annoying sometimes. Fucking annoying in desperate times. The sound of Aziraphale singing would penetrate her dreams. They would lull her into a feeling of ease, even when it would appear in the most impromptu times. Like her century long rest, visiting Anne Lister on her wedding day after the Easter Sunday service in 1834, visiting the Plague pits in London and mourning. The quiet moment at dusk when she walked slowly, dropping violet petals on the ground to mask the smell. The mournful singing ringing in her ears had brought tears to her eyes. She was too wrecked by loss to even cry.

But she couldn’t sense Aziraphale. Not then. Not amongst the book stacks. Not at her reading desk. Not bending down behind the couch trying to figure out why the miracle she placed on the frame kept reverting. Not carefully wiping the glass holding Sappho’s poetry in the authoress' own handwriting until it shone. The gramophone started to play off kilter as the pieces began to melt in the heat. Crowley screamed out but couldn’t find a single trace of her. After all this time of being to place where Aziraphale was, it was a horrible, hollow feeling. 

It boils down to this: Crowley's immune to flames. Her visits to Hell leave her clothes smelling of smoldered wood chips, her skin ashy as she walks back into the light. Just like Holy Water would kill her, Aziraphale would disintegrate at the mere touch of Hell’s flames. For all she knew, Crowley was surrounded by flame from Home, Sweet Home. 

“_Aziraphale! Where the Heaven are you, you idiot?_” She didn’t stop trying to find her, though. The fire marshal outside was calling for her to come outside, that it’s no use, the building was already badly damaged by the flame. She could obviously feel the heat, but ignored the pleas. The police could come and arrest her later. The world could fall apart in flames. The Earth could swallow the Archives whole. As long as she could find Aziraphale. She could discorporate for all she cared. She survived the Black Plague, the famine, the poisoned food, the miserable conditions. She would survive fire to try to find Aziraphale. To save her for what is hopefully not the last time. 

A gust of wind pushed her to the ground. Her glasses fell off and slid across the hard wood floor. Her body felt weak as she pushed herself up into the sitting position. Her eyes were tired with the smoke. The Archives had never felt so empty, so hollow, so lifeless. There was always laughter, or discovery, or even sorrow. But there was always _something_. Aziraphale tinkering in the kitchen for some tea, or switching the order of folios on the bookshelves, or stepping on the two squeaky stairs heading up to the second floor like an all too familiar routine. But never this. Never this quiet. Like the world had ended. For Crowley, in that moment, it had.

So, this was heartbreak, Crowley thought. Six thousand years in the making. Nothing left but Agnes Nutters’ book about “nice” prophecies that foretells saving everyone else in the most incomprehensible language. Crowley looked up as the ceiling lit up in flame. She reached out for her glasses and they slid right back across the floor into her fingertips. They were warped and melted, the frames cracked and no longer viable for use. No one could see her cry, although she was beyond caring about how she would look like to anyone outside. Nothing really mattered anymore. 

“Right. I'm done. I've had it.” She wanted to rip books out of their shelves, kick the burned pages away from her, rip the desk apart to find shreds of her. “I don't care about any bloody Angels or humans or anyone. I hate you all.” She had all of eternity to herself now. Just her and dying mortals that would never be able to see the next century, nor the next, with her. No one to sneak up on, no one to save when they needed saving. No one to take out to lunch. Those small moments appear more meaningful once the opportunity is gone. “Somebody killed my best friend, and I don't even care who did it." Her throat aches from screaming. Ash has settled on her skin and she becomes even more furious, wanting to lash out at the heat. “_Bastards_, all of you.” She walked out into the fiery scene, to police staring at her unharmed frame, to the queer onlookers crying at the lost history. 

She got into the Bentley ashy, tired, and all alone.

“Crowley?”

Aziraphale had placed a light hand on Crowley’s clenched fist. Crowley blinked up at her, clearing the smoke from her eyes. The signs of fire damage on the walls were gone. The books were unharmed. One last demonic miracle from the Antichrist. Aziraphale would have never asked, but she had still wailed when she saw the ashes of her collection, and that was enough for Crowley to beg. But she could still hear the gramophone playing unsteadily in the background. She could still hear the sound of her voice cracking as she yelled out that she was _done_, just completely and utterly _done_.

“Crowley, I should not have brought that up. Not on a night like this. I am truly sorry.”

“I wasn’t talking about _him._” Aziraphale looked a little taken a back at the sharpness. “I wasn’t talking about anyone else we know in Heaven, or Hell, or any mortal I knew on Earth.”

She wasn’t going to come out in say it. She could blame it on the drink. She could blame it on the extra strong wine that tasted like harshly spiked fruit punch. She could blame it on a lot of things, but, instead, she stared Aziraphale down, unblinking. There was no use lying at times like this. Even if she couldn’t completely say everything out loud. Too difficult and vulnerable by half. Aziraphale had to know by now. She had to.

“Then who—?” Aziraphale colored. The line of Crowley’s lips thinned further. Oh. 

The realization warmed her insides. Aziraphale reached over to retrieve the bottle of wine off the floor, the spilled wine replenished the bottle so they wouldn't miss a drop. She poured Crowley the last of the Ancient Greek wine in her own empty glass before placing it directly in Crowley’s hands, Aziraphale's soft skin lingering. A stunned Crowley watched as Aziraphale gave her a shy smile before leaning over and resting against her chest before snaking her arm around Crowley's middle. 

There has been a long standing debate on how many Angels can dance on a head of a pin. So, let it be known that two Angels — one fully blessed, the other one fallen (as they _are_ made from the same stock after all)— can lie on a too soft couch talking about all of history together, in a too warm room, throughout a Saturday night with ease. Crowley with her arm around the small of Aziraphale’s back, as she drunkenly waxes on about watching Cynisca’s chariot flying across the field amongst the uproar from the crowd, and Aziraphale, too tired with drink, listening with her nose against the crook of Crowley’s neck, taking in the faint scent of violet perfume.


	4. of all the stars-- the most beautiful

_of all the stars-- the most beautiful_

The archives were bustling again today. The whole place was filled to the brim with love. A girl and her two mothers were sitting near the back table, curled over Leslea Newman's_ Heather Has Two Mummies_ together. A boy and his boyfriend were pointing at the Oscar Wilde first editions. (She was particularly proud of those. His scholars had been particularly jealous of her long standing rank of having the largest collection of Oscar Wilde in academia. She was fairly certain one of the men who vaguely threatened her shop before was a collector. She didn’t at all blame Crowley for visiting America until the trial blew over. She could hardly breathe herself.) A gaggle of women were reciting Mary Oliver poems at one another _("You might see an angel anytime and anywhere.")_ There was laughter and overlapping conversations. The tiny girl giggled from one of her mothers' lap. Aziraphale stood in the corner, watching all of this unfold. She clutched a book tightly to her chest to center herself. It was nice. It was very nice. But overwhelming all the same. 

The year is 2020-- a year and six months after the world was supposed to end. And Aziraphale hasn’t seen Crowley in three weeks. 

Crowley had a habit of doing this. Crowley slept for an entire century once for the fun of it, apparently. Crowley had told her that the only time she left bed during this time was to use the bathroom of all things, with a raised eyebrow and a toothy grin as she waited for Aziraphale to laugh at the strangeness of it all. It wasn’t funny, though. Not at all. Nor after all this time.

So who knew where Crowley was now. Maybe asleep again, just for the pleasure of it. Sequestering herself as she torments people in God knows what kind of inconvenient ways from the comfort of her room. The lights had flickered for a solid hour every day this week. If nothing else, she laughed in relief, knowing that while Crowley was God knows where, she was alive all the same. It was a bit of a game for her honestly. She always liked attributing little inconveniences to Crowley. The heat index reaching a slightly intolerable temperature to enjoy the beautiful day outside. The recent trend of having to enter captcha messages before logging into any website. The invention of skinny jeans that can’t safely hold women’s phones without the fear of falling. Low water pressure at just the moment one most wanted to take a shower. The pain of having to spend time adjusting the driver’s seat into a comfortable position before every drive. The thought that her every invention would wind up frustrating Crowley, too, made it all the more hilarious. Aziraphale could just imagine Crowley yelling at the lights as they disturbed her when she had just gotten comfortable in her silk sheets.

A small kid squealed somewhere on the other side of the Archives near her desk. Right as she was about to cry out that there were too many people inside for safety, a loud car horn filled the street. Aziraphale let out a deep sigh in relief. Oh, really, Crowley? A few of the women near the entrance leaned outside to see the brilliant Bentley shining in all it’s previous glory. She had begged Adam to bring the car back from the hellfire, and he did so with a curious look in his eye. (Without a single scratch, too, Bless him.) A few people lifted the fragile antique lace to see who had caused the commotion. It wasn’t until Aziraphale put down her book with care on Isabel Miller's _Patience & Sarah_, and had walked as calmly as she could outside, did Crowley jump out of her car.

“Angel!” Crowley tapped the top of the Bentley with her sharp fingernails. In her absence, she had recklessly shaved the right side of her head, her multiple gold earrings gleaming in the setting sun. A pity. Aziraphale loved braiding Crowley’s long curly hair. It reminded Aziraphale of how she looked, years ago, at the Crucifixion. At least Crowley looked happy to see her this time. 

“Where have you _been?_”

“Angel, I’m sorry. I apologize. Good? Get in the car.”

“I feel like we have had this conversation before,” Aziraphale said calmly. She could feel her visitors looking at them with curious eyes. She had heard the rumors. She wasn’t deaf to them, thank you very much. Sometimes that made it harder. The thought of what could have been, of what could be. Resting against Crowley’s shoulder a month ago as she read surely didn’t help her case. 

Crowley pouted before leaning her cheek against the palm of her hand. “I want to take a ride.” 

“Where to?”

“Doesn’t matter. We just have to leave now.”

It wasn’t very convincing but Aziraphale needed little convincing at this point. Turning, she motioned at the gaggle of women behind the front doors. “I apologize, but I am closing early.” Aziraphale could practically see Crowley beaming behind her. Someone groaned loudly from the second floor. “Yes, I am quite sorry. I will open again on Monday. Yes, bright and early. Yes, yes, I am quite sorry for the inconvenience.”

They all left-- a few somewhat begrudgingly. The two mothers looked between Crowley and Aziraphale before raising an eyebrow at each other. The little girl waved when Aziraphale patted her on the back before directing her mothers toward the park. Someone had tapped Aziraphale's shoulder and pointed towards the Archives’ hours but was playfully shoved by a friend who knew Aziraphale’s bizarre schedule all too well.

Finally. She swept her hand over her eyes. The sun was starting to set on that hot Saturday night. Most of the college kids that exited her building already had plans on where to go next. So did she. She’d beg Crowley to take her somewhere quiet. Surely she wouldn’t mind? The sight of Crowley’s yellow eyes gleaming at her made her body relax dramatically. What a thing to miss, she thinks, at a time like this.

“Please do not kill me in that thing. I do not wish to perish with the current headache I have.”

“Pah!” Crowley snapped her fingers and the passenger side door opened dramatically. Crowley slapped the top of the Bentley one last time before diving into the driver’s seat, slamming the door shut behind her.

Aziraphale was trying to make sure her skirt wouldn't get stuck in the door this time just when Crowley snapped her fingers again. Aziraphale glared at her half heartedly when the door closed, making it so that she was unable to stretch her legs. “My dear--”

“Right, right.” Crowley’s long fingers reached over Aziraphale’s lap to carefully pull her skirt free. She took care to avoid Aziraphale’s appreciative eyes before shifting the driver’s seat into the perfect position to accommodate her long legs. Her chest warmed a little when Crowley placed her hand behind Aziraphale’s headrest before backing up from her “parking spot.” 

“Where are we going?”

“Don’t know yet. We’ll see,” Crowley said, somewhat ominously. 

She had left it at that. Which was fine actually, the way Aziraphale saw it. For maybe the first time she understood why babies sleep when their mother’s drive them around during the dead of night. It was much easier to ignore the speed Crowley was driving with her eyes closed, at least. They drove like that for a long time. Aziraphale watched as the sun set around them. She always did like the Earth at night. Although she missed the night skies that weren’t drowned out by light pollution. Early on, when the Earth was just beginning to be populated, she had joined a small group of humans huddled around a fire. She brought food and they welcomed her, allowing her to warm her cold fingers with the heat. One of the women pointed towards the constellations and told her the stories of their creation. Aziraphale liked the myths the best. There was something special about listening to how stories would slowly change with each generation. The mothers singing to their children during the first cold nights on Earth weren’t far behind. They had asked her to join once but she was too in awe. A mother had comforted her as she cried.

The sky became cleaner. The stars shone more brightly against the ink black sky and she turned to see Crowley looking up away from the road to admire them herself. Aziraphale wanted to reprimand her, but decided against it, not wanting to ruin the silence. It was nice for once. It reminded her of the cold nights during the years her and Crowley were influencing the wrong boy. The memory of absentmindedly curling her finger around Crowley’s hair as Crowley snored in her sleep bubbled up from within her. They had grown so close during those eleven years. It was the most they had seen of each other in such a short period of time. Aziraphale didn’t realize how much she missed it until she heard Crowley sigh softly over a lull on the CD.

Crowley finally drove slowly through a grassy patch of land. Aziraphale was positive they were on private land now, crushing the flowers in the grass underneath the spotless tires, but it didn’t seem to bother Crowley. The tires slid a little in the dirt as they drifted to a stop. They sat there for a moment before Crowley got out without a word. Fearing stepping in mud, Aziraphale let herself out gingerly. Cold mud seeped into her boots as she stepped onto the Earth, but not too badly. Not enough to bother her. The back trunk rattled as Crowley struggled to pull something out of it. Aziraphale pinned the end of her too long skirt to her waistband before turning towards the trunk.

“What do you have back there?” Aziraphale asked. “Do I want to know?”

She meant it as a jest, but Crowley ignored her. Whatever it was, it was heavy. Almost just a little too heavy for Crowley to carry. All of Aziraphale’s words of concern were ignored as she lugged whatever it was towards the front bumper. 

“Crowley?” Crowley leaned the tripod up against the tree. Apple blossoms rained down on her red hair. Throwing a quilt on the ground haphazardly, Crowley took care to guide the object towards the sky. Oh. She could recognize it now. Crowley bent over the telescope before maneuvering it around across the sky. Aziraphale walked up gently behind her. “Crowley?”

Crowley muttered something to herself as she kept turning the telescope every which way. It does not matter, Aziraphale wanted to say. She wanted to take Crowley by the arm. She wanted to guide her down to the ground and curl up against her. There was a small breeze and they couldn’t hear any of the loud city wherever they were. Finally seeing Crowley again was enough to make her night, although she’d never mention it out loud. The loud Saturday nightlife was out of sight, out of mind. Aziraphale was reminded of the quiet nights before civilization and closed her eyes in contentment. 

“_There!_” 

Aziraphale opened her eyes to see Crowley motioning back at Aziraphale to walk towards her. Crowley beamed at her before leading Aziraphale towards the telescope with her hand on her hip. When was the last time she had ever been this close to her? She could smell the violet and lavender perfume coming off from her like pinpoints. One spot on her neck, one behind her ear, one… Aziraphale leaned slightly away from her in embarrassment. Aziraphale had to stand on the tips of her toes to even see into it. She had never really messed with much technology over the last century. Sometimes humans moved too fast for her. She admired them, all the same. Loved them, cared for them, but they passed before she could really get a hold of their presence. It made sense that Crowley would have an interest in looking at the stars. Something inside of Aziraphale ached as Crowley leaned over her shoulder and adjusted the tripod to a comfortable height without her asking. 

“What did you find?”

“Just look.”

Aziraphale looked into the eyepiece. Crowley allowed her to touch the sides of it this time, although she squirmed when Aziraphale jerked it a little with inexperienced hands. Aziraphale could recognize the four stars forming a cross anywhere, though. She vaguely remembered a mother telling her about the constellation _Centaurus_. The myth was about a creature that the figure was half human, half horse. The Babylonians associated the cluster with their Sun God. The Roman poet wrote that it was a wise mentor to many of the heroes featured in their myths. Crowley mumbled something before reaching under Aziraphale’s hand. She didn’t even look before shifting the telescope a little to the left, and increasing the magnification of the lens. _Crux_ faded away. It looked like she was staring at the close up of a single star before Crowley tweaked something. One star slowly divided into two. They shone brightly against a back light of purple and other faint stars.

“Oh, how beautiful.” 

“I still want to take you there one day.”

Aziraphale looked up from the eyepiece to see Crowley staring up into the sky as if she didn’t even need the telescope at all. She had softened, leaning up against the hood of the Bentley with her glasses resting against her hairline. Her eyes were bright. Aziraphale felt like she was watching a vulnerable moment Crowley wouldn’t want her to see. 

“Where?”

“_Rigel Kentaurus_. Third brightest star in the sky. Brightest star in good ol’ _Centaurus_. Closest star to our solar system. I’m still awfully proud of it.” [2]

Aziraphale started. Crowley was still looking at the stars, calm as ever, as if she didn’t just reveal something deeply significant. It struck her then that she had never asked Crowley what role she had as an Angel before she fell. Crowley had known her on the Garden Wall, but Aziraphale didn't recognize her after she shape shifted from a snake by her feet. All those times Aziraphale saw her look towards the sky, and yet she never suspected. 

“You… you created it,” she whispered softly. 

She could see Crowley flush a little. It was a large secret to let out into the universe. Aziraphale clutched the telescope a little tighter, before letting go and reaching towards her. Crowley turned just as Aziraphale’s fingertips were a small ways away from her prominent cheekbone. Crowley averted her eyes. “Well, I-- well.”

After a long moment of silence, Aziraphale put her fingertips lightly on Crowley’s cheek. The night was warm. The small breeze ruffled her stiff skirt a little against the grass. Crowley kicked her long legs against the front bumper. A nightingale sang somewhere off in the distance. 

“They are incredibly beautiful, Crowley.”

Crowley let out a little noise of disbelief before closing her eyes. She didn’t knock her fingers away, though. That was something. Aziraphale cupped the side of Crowley’s face in the small palm of her hand. Cold thin fingertips touched Aziraphale’s wrists softly.

“Eh. It’s nothing really. Gabriel--”

“Where else can we go?”

Crowley opened her eyes in surprise. “What?”

“Take me there-- to the stars that you have created. Where will we go?”

Crowley didn’t know if Aziraphale meant it or not. Too many years of being pushed off. Too any years of denial. It took six thousand years just for Aziraphale to admit they were friends. _You go too fast for me, Crowley_ rang in her ears as Aziraphale’s bright blue eyes stared up at her hopefully. A hopeful thought bubbled up from Crowley's deeply repressed subconscious. What if they were caught up now? What if she was ready? 

Crowley melted a little into Aziraphale’s palm. Without looking away from her, Crowley lifted her arm towards The Dog Star. “There.” Aziraphale turned to look past Crowley’s pointed fingernail. Crowley had to turn Aziraphale towards the open sky to point her in the right direction. She put her chin on Aziraphale’s shoulder as a pretense of showing her the correct cluster of stars. Taking Aziraphale’s manicured hand in hers, Crowley lifted them, pretending not to link their fingers together slightly as she pointed towards Orion’s hunting dogs “_Sirius. Alpha Canis Majoris._ The brightest star in the night sky.” 

Aziraphale didn’t have to know all the details. For all Crowley knew, she didn’t want any. But she rarely had a moment to share her stars with anyone. They were her shining reminder of her history as an Angel. Even if it was a long time ago. So she was going to glory in it a little bit. Just for a moment. The world around them seemed to drift off into nothing as she focused on the sound of Aziraphale’s light breathing. Crowley just wanted to fall asleep in the crook of her neck. 

“And there.” Crowley pointed to the other side of the sky. Aziraphale squinted past her pointed fingernail. Something in Crowley’s stomach warmed. “No, wait.” She shifted her fingertip a millimeter away. “_There._”

Aziraphale spun a little, looking up at Crowley with soft eyes. Crowley could lean down and kiss her here if she really wanted to. She desperately wanted to. Sappho’s odd Aeolic dialect whispered _“the stars about the full moon lose their bright beauty when she, almost full, illumines all earth with silver”_ into her ear. This was her punishment for saving Sappho's _Ode to Aphrodite_ from the burning horror of the Library of Alexandria, wasn't it? Aziraphale laced their fingers together before pulling their conjoined hands towards her chest. Her hands were warm. Heaven help me, Crowley thought. She wonders if she particularly deserves this moment before burying the notion deep within herself. Sometimes it's nice to hope. The soft look on Aziraphale's face almost encouraged it.

“Take me there. Promise me? Promise me you will?”

Crowley softened. They had all the time in the world.

———————————————————————  
[2] I know you can't see Alpha Centauri above the 29 degree N latitude, but Crowley is a demon, so she has miracled herself a magical telescope.


	5. for as long as you want

_for as long as you want_

Crowley always considered Aziraphale’s Archives cozy. She was sure Aziraphale had miracled the couch to be damn near impossible to not fall asleep on. The smell of violet and lavender candles and fresh hot cocoa filled the air. People would laugh, while others sit in the corner huddled over a book with trepidation. The perfect air conditioning was a blessing compared to the summer heat. It was so different from the pristine but empty shine of Heaven, and much, much cleaner than the clutter and the bustle of bodies in Hell. While she prided herself on her minimalist design of her apartment, Crowley allowed herself to sink into Aziraphale’s couch cushions with a sigh. She would never say how much she loved visiting Aziraphale outloud, but she had to know by now. She had to.

“Angel, where’s that blanket you always keep over here?” She sat up to see if it slid off the back of the couch, and pouted at the clean floor. “I’m cold.”

“Hm.” Aziraphale didn’t even look up from her desk. She turned the page in her book and laughed softly. “I believe it is in the kitchen at home.”

It should have hit her earlier. The mugs in the sink. A few bottles of handmade violet syrup in her empty cabinets. A half used carton of milk in her bare fridge. Georgette Heyer’s _The Masqueraders_ opened upside down over the arm of her chair. The light in the apartment was brighter than she remembered. Her plants weren’t so frightened anymore, much to her displeasure. It was only when she walked in on Aziraphale praising her newest addition for sprouting did Crowley completely understand why. 

It all happened so slowly that Crowley didn’t even really notice until she was in the middle of it. Waking up in the middle of the night for a drink only to find Aziraphale still sitting in the same spot, her halo illuminating the page. She should have known when Aziraphale would run out of her living room, hurriedly squeezing Crowley's fingers as a farewell because she was late in opening her Archives. (The fact that Aziraphale could snap her fingers to appear in her Archives on time confused her further.) It even felt strange when Aziraphale _wasn’t_ there. Crowley would appear in the Archives right after she searched the empty apartment, trying to sound casual when she called out for her. Crowley should have known when she found herself sitting on the kitchen counter, kicking her legs idly, as she watched Aziraphale lick sugar off her fingertips with a little too much attention. 

The year is 2021— exactly two years after the world was supposed to end. And Crowley is wondering when, exactly, Aziraphale had moved in. 

It’s not like it was _unwelcome._ There was something rather nice about waking up to see Aziraphale making a cup of tea in the morning with her eyes still in a book. Boiling tea poured over the edge of her mug because Aziraphale couldn’t draw her eyes away from the story. It had made Crowley laugh out loud when she snuck up behind her. Aziraphale started in surprise. There was something nice in the way the cotton of what was probably her nightgown from the Edwardian Era hugged Aziraphale’s silhouette. The lace just below Aziraphale’s knees made the laugh catch in Crowley’s throat. Aziraphale’s legs were adorned with a fine layer of blonde hair. Embroidery snaked around her hips. Crowley had a horrible moment of wanting to get down on her knees and untie the knot of the lacy robe at Aziraphale’s waist with her teeth.

Aziraphale, her ringlets reaching past her ribcage, her eyes wide and slightly red from staring down at her book too long, gave Crowley a startled look. “My dear, you startled me.” Crowley could have said the same.

It was easy, then, to look into other housing. Not that Crowley wanted to get _away_ from waking up to Aziraphale greeting her in the morning. She wanted to _ensure_ that that would be a common occurrence. It had been a small plan in the back of her head for a while now. A small cottage. A large kitchen for Aziraphale to paint violet petals in egg whites and caster sugar. A personal library that looked bigger on the inside than one might expect from the outside. Separate rooms, although the thought made Crowley ache. The sound of angelic singing in the halls rather than across the world. Surely it would be easier to level out the whole good verses evil thing if they lived under the same roof? That was Crowley’s logic at least, the prepared rebuttal to a hypothetical Aziraphale questioning her motives. It had worked with Warlock, even if their attention was somewhat displaced. Crowley was selfish, though. She was still a Demon after all. She just wanted to see Aziraphale’s leg hair glowing in the early sunrise again.

It was easier to tempt an Angel than she thought it would be. For all of the six thousand years that Crowley had known her, for the six thousand years that Aziraphale had denied that they were even friends, Aziraphale’s face lit up at the carefully rehearsed casual comment of them sharing a home. 

“Really?” Her voice was soft. The image of Aziraphale beaming up at her when she agreed to make _Hamlet_ a hit rose from the depths of her memory. The features of Aziraphale’s face as soft and warm as when Crowley had brought back her bundle of books from the ashes of the church in 1941. Crowley had her eyes hidden away both times in the past to hide her embarrassment. There was something to be said about being vulnerable. For as much as she was used to the crowds of Hell, she never really realized how touch starved she truly was until Aziraphale took Crowley’s cold hand in hers and squeezed her fingers lightly.

Her landlord was a little too tremendously happy to get rid of her. (Too many complaints about her yelling at her plants. Too many hesitant knocks on her door asking if she was quite alright when she decided to sleep for an extended period of time. The police had even stopped bothering to show up for wellness checks after a few ignored visits.) Her prompt rent payments were the only thing going in her favor. The only problem was Crowley sure as Hell hadn’t been paying them. One demonic miracle later, (considering neither of them had any credit to hear of,) and a small little cottage in South Downs was theirs. Crowley jokingly offered to drive Aziraphale to the Archives each morning as a penance, only to met with a quick look of unmasked horror. She could probably never get Aziraphale used to the speed of things. Aziraphale had probably heard the Victorian myth of women being driven insane by fast speeds and couldn’t shake the superstition, even though, technically, they were not women themselves.

“Absolutely not." It was a deadly serious tone said with a smile. A warm hand touched Crowley’s cheek and everything in the world seemed okay.

Settling in was easy. A little too easy. They formed a routine, Crowley getting almost swept up into the pleasure of it. The dirt surrounding the cottage felt cool against her fingers. Crushed violet leaves act as the perfect fertilizer. Aziraphale had beamed happily when Crowley had asked her to make violet tea, only to have her look turn to confusion when Crowley poured in corn seeds to soak up the infusion. The Cherokee Indians had taught her to press the seeds into the ground as a natural insecticide, and the advice hasn’t failed her once. They soon had flowers blooming, enticing butterflies to visit them almost too early in the season. Crowley arranged potted plants all around the house to start making the space their home. Books began appearing in stacks down the hallways, threatening to trip her at any moment. Aziraphale would wash the dirt from underneath Crowley’s long fingernails, and while Crowley pretended to complain, she allowed her hands to be pulled underneath the stream of cool water in their sink. Their plants thrived, even if all Aziraphale did was sing to herself as she read in their close proximity. Crowley didn’t tell her, but she called the plants theirs all the same. 

On clear nights, Crowley would throw a quilt down on the ground for them. Aziraphale would sit with her legs curled up beside her as Crowley pointed the telescope towards the sky, trying to find other stars they could visit in the future. The stars were bright and visible thanks to the lack of light pollution. It was like their own little Eden. Crowley had missed that the most: the calm before she put her plan into action. Aziraphale patted the space next to her with her fingertips and Crowley relented, taking one last look towards _Altair_ and _Vega,_ the pining Cowherd and the Weaver Girl separated by the _Milky Way._ The fifth brightest star in the night sky seemed even brighter in the countryside. Crowley collapsed by her, leaning on her back with her arms crossed behind her head, and sighed contently. Thick petticoats swished as Aziraphale gracefully laid down on the blanket next to her. 

Crowley wasn’t sure how it happened. It was just one of those things. Like how the Bentley played Queen regardless of what the original CD was after two weeks. Like how her plants would shiver in her presence. Like how she kept getting tricked by the coin she had personally glued to the cement just a few days prior. 

It was one of those things that seemed to so natural, so easy, that it was a wonder that it took so long to make it a reality. Aziraphale’s lips against her forehead are soft and moisturized. Her soft hand caresses Crowley’s temple, brushing away stray stands of curly red hair. Aziraphale lets out a little exhale, and Crowley opens her eyes to see Aziraphale smiling down at her. Crowley tries to not get her hopes up. Since moving in, they’ve had a lot of moments like this. Falling asleep to the calming sound of Aziraphale’s voice as her head laid in Aziraphale’s lap. Aziraphale tucking her arm around the curve of Crowley’s elbow when they were walking towards St. James’ Park. The familiar intimacy of greeting her in the morning, when a sweet expression would spread over Aziraphale’s face, and being the only one in all of history to wish Crowley good-night. Crowley knew, she _knew_, she must look like a mess after every moment. Avoiding Aziraphale’s eyes as she woke up from her nap. Her heart beating fast in her chest at the touch of Aziraphale’s fingers. The flushed look on her face when Aziraphale would beam at her before starting to read the line she left off on as her tea brewed. Crowley surprised Aziraphale with dark chocolate violet creams topped with violet petals the day before Valentines’ Day, even if she pretended to not remember Saint Valentine in doing so. Quite a coincidence, eh? Crowley was sure Aziraphale didn’t buy it, but was too kind to mention it. There were so many small intimate moments Crowley wished would add up to something more significant.

She was wrong. Crowley watches as Aziraphale leaned down once again to place a soft kiss at the center of her mouth. Crowley whines when Aziraphale pulls away, and it sounds so pathetic, but she can’t help it. It’s been too many years in the making. She had imagined the moment for millenia. Dreaming of kissing her in Ancient Greece after putting a violet crown around Aziraphale’s neck. Wanting to kiss her in celebration when two women in the Colosseum won their freedom after a tie. Wanting to kiss her after a number of successful temptations (even though Aziraphale would probably consider doing so sacrilegious.) Wanting to kiss Aziraphale’s face covered in a thin layer of violet infused goat’s milk meant to brighten her skin after a ball in 1814. Wanting to kiss the top of Aziraphale’s head before heading in for the night, wishing she would join her. The lonely nights after the Church bombing, when she wished Aziraphale’s manicured fingers were gently rubbing the violet infused aloe into the soles of her burned feet instead of her own.

Worry crossed Aziraphale’s face. Crowley didn’t mean to stare. She just couldn’t believe it. Too many years in the making. Too many daydreams she was resigned would never happen. Aziraphale blushed and started to look away from her. Crowley wouldn’t have it. She couldn’t stand it. Reaching up, she pressed her lips a little too harshly against Aziraphale’s. Crowley was out of practice, but she didn’t particularly care. It seems too dramatic and overdone to say that Crowley felt a spark. It doesn’t seem genuine to say that her breath was knocked out of her. Her hands did ache though, as she buried her long fingers into the thick mass of blond curly hair. Her heart did race when Aziraphale pulled away and smiled down at her. Her whole body radiated with warmth when a soft hand cupped Crowley’s chin. Crowley was a moment away from sobbing.

“Softer,” Aziraphale said, before kissing the corner of Crowley’s mouth as an example.

But if she did that, it was never going to be enough. She wanted to forget she had a physical body. Crowley wanted to dissolve into Aziraphale’s skin. She wanted to be so close to her that their molecules would fuse together. She wanted Aziraphale and her to cease to exist as separate beings. The longing became a physical _ache_ in her stomach, but she respected Aziraphale too much to push it. She was conscious of the times Aziraphale would hint that it was time for Crowley to leave her Archives in the past. She cared too much for her to betray that history of trust. Aziraphale deserved better than that. 

So even though her body was vibrating and her vision was cloudy, Crowley settled on lightly wrapping her arms around Aziraphale’s back and kissed her gently as _Alpha Centauri_ faded in the morning light.


End file.
